


101 Lower Thames Street

by NeedsMoreBears



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Beverley as a Roman-era man, Established Relationship, M/M, Roman Architecture, This explains the Catullus references, bathhouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21867103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeedsMoreBears/pseuds/NeedsMoreBears
Summary: Peter needs to spend all night studying thevestigiain a Roman ruin. Fortunately, there's a pre-Roman version of Beverley to assist him.
Relationships: Beverley Brook/Peter Grant
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37
Collections: Flash Fuck: Round One (2019)





	101 Lower Thames Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aurae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurae/gifts).



> Happy almost-Solstice!
> 
> This story is set shortly after the end of _Lies Sleeping._ Thanks to _e y_ for moral support.

A barbarian invaded the bathhouse. Here, for "barbarian", read "Abigail has made _remarks_ about my Latin accent, which I responded to by yelling 'bar, bar, bar'," and for "invaded", read "had a word with a curator at the Museum of London and got the keys to the freight lift in the office tower." This particular office tower was at 101 Lower Thames Street. That translates as Future Falcon Problem, Return to Sender, though the office tower was your standard 1970s embarrassment. A proper embarrassment, in this case—they tore down the Coal Exchange in the 1960s and took a decade to get over the trauma and replace it with something bland and forgettable. Meanwhile, the cast iron Coal Exchange dragons got borrowed as symbols of the City of London, because if anything says London, it's "We fucked this up and built an office tower."

At any rate, Nightingale had observed that baseline readings of _vestigia_ might be in order, over an extended period of time, perhaps dusk till dawn, and as the resident Falcon member who is casually mobile on a weeknight, I had prepared an expedition. So it was down the freight lift and through the corridor and down the staircase into the sub-basement, welcome to the archaeological site, please don't break anything. 

Once upon a time, between one and two millennia ago, someone constructed a bath at this location, perhaps as consolation for no longer having a view of the physical Thames. There had been a hypocaust, so warmth would have come up through your toes even in the dead of winter. Very civilized, if like most civilized people you didn't give a fuck about the person keeping the fire stoked. All that remained of that system, though, were stacks of square tiles that would have supported the floor, arranged in a grid within a curving half-wall. The room was chilly. Neither the very best upgrades from 1970s climate control nor the hint of smoke from the _vestigia_ were enough to offset the general aura of basement.

But I'm professionally qualified to keep watch in ancient cellars. I wore layers, hoodie underneath, quilted jacket over top, and I brought a folding chair and the traditional Folly sack of sandwiches. There was a hint of perfume in the _vestigia_ too, heavy on the rosewater, like your favorite Persian patisserie. It made me wonder if Molly had included cake. I set up my chair with its back to the modern concrete and a clear view of the staircase terminus. I was just opening the sack to investigate the cake question when the _vestigia_ shifted into spice and fresh water, myrrh and distant laughter.

I looked up. There was a true barbarian at the foot of the stairs, a slender and athletic white man, stark naked except for the gold torc around his neck. He carried a corked pottery jar with two handles, a bronze strigil curved like the Greek letter ς, and the feeling of splashing through a fountain at midsummer. Because I am charming and diplomatic when faced with weird shit, I said, "You don't look pregnant."

Bev answered, " _You_ look overdressed."

I protested, "It's cold down here!" But Bev's presence had awakened the ruin's sense of itself. The air no longer clung damply—one might even say it wafted. I shrugged out of my jacket, placing it on the chair, and walked over to the ruined wall. I held my palm a few inches above the stone. It was faintly warm.

"Still overdressed." Bev looked me up and down with an air somewhere between appreciation and impatience, brandishing the strigil. I might have stalled a while longer, but he uncorked the jar next. It just held olive oil. But its aroma was pepper and sunlight and _green_. It felt like being sixteen and realizing you can stop at the street market and buy someone a bunch of flowers and they'll smile like you did something astonishing. 

Besides, haven't you always wanted to fuck in a Roman bathhouse?

I laid my hoodie and T-shirt on top of the wall, now softly and pleasantly warm, and set my other clothes neatly beside it. Interpreting Bev's eyebrow gestures, I perched on the wall with my back to him, dangling my feet toward the missing floor. He bit the back of my neck gently, murmuring something that might have been Brittonic, glooped some oil into his hand, and began to massage me, pressing his thumbs hard under my shoulderblades. I may work for the Folly, but police work is still police work, and involves a remarkable amount of time carrying awkward objects from Point A to Point B and back to A again. Bev pushed away the twists and counterbalances I hadn't realized I was carrying. I leaned back into his hands, breathing the bright green scent of a new olive grove.

Bev's arms slipped around me and his hand wrapped around my cock. I said, just, "Oh," feeling the strength of his long fingers underneath the softness of the oil. My cock pressed against him and I felt his heat against me, all around me. I even felt warm water lapping at my feet. 

I was moaning and rock hard like your best Greek vase illustration when Bev pulled away and made the particular interrogative noise that means, "I need some too, babes." I swung my legs back over the wall to face him, and yeah, he was rock hard himself. His cock was long and a little bit narrow, the way the rest of him was built. The tip was a sweet rose pink. 

I made my own interrogative noise, and Bev said clearly, "I want to fuck you in the mouth." 

That was a lot. I hadn't expected to go full Catullus right away. But I had to admit I was curious what he would taste like, too. I made a stern gesture at the packed dirt by the wall and said, "Mollesce." It softened obligingly. I knelt upon my now more comfortable dirt—sometimes you need a tactical support spell—and tasted Bev's cock. I had a moment to run my tongue along it, feeling the softness of the skin at the tip, before he started thrusting hard. It took me a little while to get the rhythm of it, how to press my lips around him and take him deep inside my throat and not forget to breathe. It didn't help that I wanted to catch my breath just at him wanting me, the strength of it, even in this ancient form. You never know, with rivers. But then we had it. He was pushing and I was grabbing his hips and taking him, and my own cock rose up so hard it almost ached. Fuck, I was glad to be alive.

When Bev came, it was sweet. I've got a scientific mind, I know what cum tastes like. Something between brackish and the feeling chocolate leaves in your mouth. This was pure spring water. I coughed, because there was a lot of it, and then I hugged him tight. 

He hugged me back, grin stretching wide across that narrow face. "Got some measurements left to do, babes."

We both knew where to start.


End file.
